The train from Los Angeles rolled slowly up to the little station at Marion and the asthmatic engine seemed to wheeze its relief that its labor was ended, as an old man stepped from the last car and looked eagerly along the platform. Then a certain degree of disappointment overspread his fine face, and shouldering a heavy parcel, strapped round with leather to give a holding place, he strode rather unsteadily forward over the same sandy road, or street, which had tried Ninian Sharp’s patience on his first visit to the post town.

Yet, after a little, the man grew accustomed to his own stiffness of limb and moved with a sort of halting swiftness which soon brought him to the little hostelry of one Aleck McLeod, where a group of ranchmen were sunning themselves while they waited the distribution of the mail.

It was noticeable that the porch was spotlessly clean and that none of the idlers profaned its cleanliness by so much as one expectoration of tobacco juice, though all were either smoking or chewing that weed. They had far too great respect for Janet, Aleck’s wife, and for the labor that cleanliness meant in that waterless region. They were all deep in the discussion of the late events at Sobrante and none heard the old traveler’s approach over the soft ground, till he stood close beside them with his foot on the lower step.

But he heard them and their eager talk; and, pausing a bit, the more completely to surprise them by an intended halloo, he forgot that and all else save what they were saying.

“It was ten to one she was never found. ’Pears like a miracle to me, that old Pedro was led to find that very cave just when he did. My wife claims it was a miracle, same as used to be in Bible days, and you can’t talk her out of it. You know how women are,” said one ranchman, who had aided in the search for Jessica.

“Well, first and last, them Trents have done a heap for this section of our ‘native.’ And they’re square folks, every identical of them. Even the little tacker, that boy Ned. There’s more in his head than he gets credit for, and one these days he’ll show there is. He’s a master hand with a gun, baby as he is, and if he’d had one handy I wager he’d have put some shot into the ugly carcass of that Ferd––– But he hadn’t the iron and he didn’t,” added another smoker.

“It was a prime spread Mis’ Trent gave us. Must have took about all the provisions she had in store, but nothing was too good for them that helped her in her trouble. Or tried to help, same thing; since it was her own man, Pedro, found the child. Away down in the bottom of a pit in the depth of an unknown cave! Think of it, somebody! It just makes my hair rise on end, known’ there is such a fool and scoundrel joined in one dwarf’s body––Hello! hel––lo!”

The last speaker’s words ended in a sort of screech of astonishment and recognition, as a hard hand was laid upon his shoulder, and Ephraim Marsh demanded, fiercely:

“What’s that you say, neighbor?”

“Why, hello, Marsh! Where’d you drop from?” cried one, rising and extending a hand in greeting.

“You’re a sight to cure sick folks!” shouted another, pressing to “Forty-niner’s” side, and slapping the veteran’s shoulder in high good will.

But Ephraim had no feeling at present, save anxiety to know what their discussion had meant; and, all talking, they laid a succinct history of the last few days before him. He listened in increasing alarm and amazement and his old limbs tottered beneath him, so that he called out, hastily:

“Give me a seat, somebody, quick, before I fall. I––I––to think of my little gell––my own sweet-faced, lovin’ little gell–––Oh, I can’t believe it! I can’t and I won’t. It’s some plaguey Californy yarn’ you’re passin’ the time with. Atlantic! But you might have chose a likelier subject to fool over, you might.”

But Aleck himself had seen the arrival through the window and came out to greet him with the heartiness accorded all the Sobrante people, and to assure him that the story was all true; and that, after all, it were better that he had not been at home when the trouble came; “for it would have broke your heart, ‘Forty-niner,’ into more pieces than old Stiffleg broke your bones, and it wouldn’t have healed so soon, neither. But, come in, come in, boy, and have a mouthful of dinner. Janet has as fine a dish of haggis as ever I tasted in Aberdeen at home, and it should relish to you, after all that hospital fare and so on. Janet! Janet! Here’s Ephraim Marsh! Come welcome him!”

And Janet came quickly, like her husband cordial and sympathetic, and led the deeply moved frontiersman 102 into her own kitchen, where no uninvited ranchman dared intrude, and there served him well with good things, including the haggis. And as she served she talked in a wise, womanly way that soothed his agitation and turned his thoughts from enmity against the dwarf into thanksgiving that now all was well.

“For since it is over and done with we can reckon the gain. The sweet bit bairnie has won for herself fresh friends. In all the countryside there was but one feeling, ‘The child must be found.’ No other thing was of any moment, and found she was, by a man so much older than any of the rest that nobody, not even you, can grudge him the honor. More hot milk? Oat cake? Nothing? Well, well; for a man that’s traveling you’ve a small appetite. Must be off already and pack your own bundle? Why, friend, you would better leave that till one the boys rides up for the mail. Due before this, indeed, for Sobrante ranchers are ever keen for their post stuff. No? A horse, then? Aleck was going to do a bit of plowing with her, later on, but he’ll eagerly give over that for you.”

But Ephraim felt that he could delay for nothing more, not even for the arrival of a Sobrante messenger; and as for Jean, the sorrel mare––he and she were old acquaintances, and he declined her services with a grim smile, saying:

“Thank you, Janet, it’s kindly offered, but I’m in haste and I’d rather trust my own lame leg than her four lagging ones. Besides, if Aleck has been afield in this search he’ll be behindhand in his work, and he’s a hand to keep things up to the level line. Good-by, good-by. Oh! wait a bit, though. I’d clean forgot that I put a scrap of white Scotch linen 103 and a yard or two of plaid bodice stuff in my pack for you. This business of my captain getting lost has shaken my wits.”

Though Janet protested against the trouble her face glowed at prospect of her gifts, and as she assisted him to unstrap and refasten his canvas sack, and even begged to be shown the simple remembrances he had procured for everybody he knew “at home;” not least among them being calicoes of brilliantly unwashable colors for Aunt Sally’s patchwork. Then he set off alone, staff in hand, stolidly yet swiftly covering the ground with that halting stride of his that soon took him out of sight.

The assembled ranchmen received their own mail matter, mounted and rode away; and there settled over the little town that monotonous quiet which would not be broken again until the arrival of the evening train, when, possibly, some chance passenger might alight on the deserted platform.

Meanwhile, Ephraim was passing over the level road toward “home,” feeling keener delight and longing with each step’s advance, and when he came to a little branch trail, where a rude signpost stated the fact that he had come “Five miles from Marion,” he made his first halt, sitting to rest for a few moments under the eucalyptus trees bordering the arroyo. The branch road led to and disappeared among a group of buildings, some distance to the north, on the ranch of one Miguel Solano, a friend of Antonio Bernal, and a Mexican of ill-repute. The ranch was comparatively new and was rich in olive orchards and all the conveniences for producing a fine quality of oil, and had been bought and arranged by an easterner with all the accessories of profitable farming. Death had put an end to the settler’s 104 industry, and the property had come, at a low figure, into Solano’s hands; whereupon everything industrious lapsed, neglect and discomfort usurping the place of thrifty comfort.

Gazing toward this place, Ephraim reflected that; “If that Greaser had half as much snap as he has wickedness he’d be a rich man. As ’tis, honest folks sort of give Solano’s a wide berth. I’m thirsty as a dog and wouldn’t mind havin’ a drink out that artesian well they have there, but––Atlantic! There’s somebody already stoopin’ over it; looks mighty familiar!”

Then the old man stood up and shielded his eyes with his hand as he peered into the distance, ending his scrutiny with a shake of his fist in the direction he had gazed, and muttering aloud:

“No, I’m better off here. Queer how you can recognize a snake, no matter how far off! That’s Ferd, the dwarf; and if I was near enough to touch him I couldn’t keep my fingers off his dirty throat, nohow, till I’d choked the life out of him! Ugh! When I think––– But I mustn’t think. I must just get up and jog on till I see a prettier sight than that. If I can spy the hunchback at one mile off I can see my little captain’s bonny head at ten. Home, old ‘Forty-niner’! Home’s the word!”

As if the thought of Jessica had put new strength into his body Ephraim again shouldered his pack and started forward; but he had proceeded a short distance only when he again halted and this time in consternation. On the road before him, where it dipped slightly into a hollow, lay the prostrate figure of a man, face downward in the dust; and from the shrubbery near by came the helpless floundering of some big animal and its occasional 105 cry of distress, than which there is no sound more pitiful in all the world.

Away flew the pack, and Ephraim bent over the man, gently turning him over, and crying in fresh dismay:

“It’s Marty! George Cromarty, of all men, dead as a doornail!”

Alas! Ephraim’s home-coming was proving anything but the delight he had anticipated. To be met first by the story of the trouble which had visited Sobrante and now by this dreadful discovery almost unnerved him; but he was a man of action and his hand flew to Marty’s breast to feel if his heart still beat. With the other hand he softly brushed the dust from the rigid features and rubbed the colorless temples. After a second or two his face brightened, and he cried aloud, as if the other might hear and be cheered:

“Well, you aren’t a dead man, after all, Marty, my lad! But I’d give a heap, this minute, for a bit of cold water to give you. And, Atlantic! I believe I’m losing my wits. ’Course, he’s got it himself, handy. All the boys carry a flask in their pockets, even on the short ride to post, but Marty, being teetotal, fills his with water and gets laughed at for his notions. A mighty good notion it’ll prove for him if it saves his life, and here goes!”

Raising Marty’s lean body so that his head rested on the fallen bundle, Ephraim secured the flask, found it full, and began to moisten the white lips; then, cautiously, to force a few drops down the stiffening throat. Success soon crowned his efforts since, fortunately, the ranchman was merely stunned, not killed, by the ugly fall he had taken 106 when his horse so suddenly pitched forward and tossed him overhead against the pile of rocks.

For it was a horse in agony which sent that moving appeal from the thicket near by, and as soon as “Forty-niner” was sure that the man was recovering, though he could not as yet speak, he sought the poor beast and saw, to his distress, that for it there was no respite save in death.

“Well, well, well! This is a bad job all round, but better a horse than a man, and lucky for both I came when I did. If I had a gun I’d end the misery of one, straight off. And maybe Marty has. I’ll look and see.”

Returning to the road he was greeted by a prolonged stare from the dazed ranchman, who had, indeed, been able to drag his body to a sitting posture, but vainly sought to understand what had happened.

Ephraim spoke to him, asking in a matter-of-fact tone:

“Got a revolver with you, lad?”

“Eh? W-h-a-t?” returned Marty, wonder drawing upon him at finding who his companion was. “You––Eph?”

“Course. Who else! Been quite a spell since we two met, but better late than never. Got a pistol, I say?”

“What for?”

The sharpshooter hesitated, then gave an evasive answer:

“Powerful long since I done any practicin’, and feel like I better try my hand.”

At that instant there was another heavy floundering behind the bushes and another brutish moan of 107 pain. With this full consciousness came to the injured ranchman and he tried to rise, crying in his own distress:

“That’s Comanche!”

“Forty-niner” gravely nodded.

“He’s hurt?” demanded Marty, as if he defied the answer to be affirmative.

Ephraim turned away his face. To them, horses were almost as human beings, and the love of a master for his beast was something fraternal.

“Help me to him,” said the ranchman, staggering to his feet.

“Better not, lad. Best trust to me,” protested the elder man.

“Trust––what?”

The look in Ephraim’s eyes was all the answer needed to this fierce question, and Marty turned away his own gaze as he faltered the next one:

“Yes, mate, but take it like a man. Better him than you, and––give me the gun.”

Marty straightened and stiffened himself.

“Help me to him. Something’s wrong with my legs. I’ll see for myself. If it must be, I’ll do it for myself.”

The frontiersman understood the sentiment and respected it. He had had to do a like hard duty for his own horseflesh before that, and he had always felt it a sort of murder. He did not look at Marty’s face as he carefully guided his wavering steps into the thicket and the presence of the suffering Comanche, where one look sufficed his master.

“Oh, you poor fellow!”

For an instant the tall head stooped to the level of the struggling animal, and a strange, expressive look passed between the great equine eyes and the misty ones of the man. Then Marty’s hand went swiftly around to his pocket, there was the click of a weapon, a flash and report, and Comanche moved no more.

More shaken and ill from this deed than from his terrible fall, Marty sat long in silence by Ephraim’s side beneath the eucalyptus trees; then suddenly rousing, exclaimed:

“Now, to find out the cause!”

It was not far to seek, though difficult to understand. Of all men in that countryside, gay, big-hearted George Cromarty had most friends and fewest enemies. He took life lightly, merrily, with a good word for the virtues of others and silence for their vices; yet there before them, unmistakably plain, was the trap that had been set for his life. A pit had been dug across the whole width of the road, shallow, indeed, but sufficiently deep to throw any horse passing over it. Its top had been screened with interlacing twigs, over which had been scattered soil and dust enough to hide them. One who rode with his eyes on the ground, as Antonio used, might easily, perhaps, have discovered the fiendish work; but he who rode with head upraised and his gaze on the distance would ride to his ruin as Marty had done. To make the treachery more secure, some sprays of wild grapes had been tightly stretched beneath the whole, and this showed a deliberation of evil that turned Ephraim sick, but the other man furious.

“Who did that will pay the price! I swear it!” he cried.

“It surely was meant for a Sobrante man, for they’re few besides who ride this way,” answered “Forty-niner,” thoughtfully. “And, Atlantic! Here’s the mail pouch! Maybe ’twas robbery, pure and simple. Was it a money day, for supplies or such?”

“Reckon it was. The mistress herself locked and gave the bag to me, bidding me be careful. As if I was ever careless; but there was one letter in it I heard about, that the little captain wrote to Ninian Sharp. Wrote herself, an invite to the Christmas doings. Try it.”

Examination proved that the bag had been tampered with, though the lock was a spring and now securely fastened; but a small leather flap, intended to cover the keyhole, had been torn from its fastenings and lay on the ground. The pouch itself had been flung slightly out of the way, under the bushes, as if the trespasser had satisfied himself with and concerning it and had no further use for it.

“Well, there used to be three keys to this concern. One the mistress has; one the postmaster keeps at the office; and the other was Antonio’s, since he always was wanting to open and put something extra in the bag after Mrs. Trent had done with it. I never liked the look of that, and it’s my opinion that it’s the very key has unlocked this bag, if unlocked it’s been. Which is more’n likely.”

Cromarty’s head was again beginning to grow dizzy, and he sat again upon the rock to recover himself, making no answer to Ephraim’s words than the exclamation:

“How am I going to get that bag to post in time?”